


Vows

by olehistorian



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Comfort, F/M, Hurt, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-18 14:29:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14215185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olehistorian/pseuds/olehistorian
Summary: This is an AU song fic, Chelsie piece set in Reformation-era England at Downton Abbey, a literal Abbey. Carson is a priest and Elsie Hughes is a nun in the era of the English Reformation. They are in love, but can they do anything about it? Will they do anything about it?





	1. The Lonely Hours

**Author's Note:**

> Each chapter is has a song associated with it as inspiration which can be found in the chapter title. Song lyrics are included in the chapter and no copyright infringement is intended.

When you must do without him  
But your dreams are still about him  
You'll begin the lonely hours

Downton Abbey. Yorkshire. England. 1520.

"If you love him, you will let him go."

The Abbess's words sting as they play over in her mind drowning every other thing, every other thing that has been spoken to her or spoken by her this night. If her heart had been pierced with the sharp tip of the swordsman's dagger she could hurt no more painfully than she does now. What grieves her even more is that she knows the words to be true. There are rules to this way of life and for years she has abided by them. She has set the finest example; no one can accuse her otherwise. She has fed the hungry, tended the ill, clothed the poor. She has lived an exemplary life.

Until him.

She looks down at the plain gold ring that sits upon her finger and the pangs of guilt well deep within her breast as tears fill her eyes; she and he, apart and together have broken the vows they made long ago both to others and to God. While they've not broken the vows they made to remain chaste, they've been intimate nonetheless. Their's has been an affair of the heart and for them it is so much more dangerous. She wonders if there is any redemption if they stop now what they are doing? Will a lifetime of service and devotion be squelched by one black mark? But then she remembers how he makes her feel and she questions herself: will she be damned of what she feels, because of what this man makes her feel? And will she be condemned because she feels that she's done nothing wrong? Because she feels that she's doing nothing but finding some happiness for herself?

When your romance is ending  
And your heart has stopped pretending  
You are in the lonely hours

He knows that it's right that they let go of one another; that they agree not to see one another, that there can be no more rare late nights meeting in the dark hours when the earth is sleeping, when they try to snatch a few moments for themselves. All they want are a few desperate, stolen moments with one another, but it can be no more. In a few years, she will likely be the Abbess herself and he has ambitions.

He tries to forget her, to forget the feel of her, of the soft skin of her cheek pressed against his, of her hand pressed into his; of her sweet voice and the kind words she speaks. He knows that warm body pressed against warm body and whispered words will soon lead to much more and he would never sully her reputation, never mark her out as a fallen woman. He's cloistered himself away with his prayer book and his beads, the rich velvet of his robes warm against his skin and he prays. He prays that he will be strong enough to forget her. That he will be strong enough to forget the days and nights that they've shared and that when they next see one another, they can simply carry on as they did most of the fifteen years they've known one another instead of the last five.

Oh, how slow the moments go  
When your love disappears  
Oh, how slow the moments go  
Every minute is a thousand years

Her's has been a life of service, a life cloistered away in this great stone edifice. She has devoted her life to the well-being of others and to their eternal happiness, to their eternal security. She attends the births of babes, is a mender of linens, broken limbs, and broken spirits. She does her job with an efficiency and ease that comes with years of practice and true devotion. She loves what she does and she loves her people. But her heart is broken and who is there to mend it? Who is there to tend her? To take her confession? Surely, she cannot go to him with the pain that she feels; she cannot slip into the confessional booth and admit to the nights that she lies awake and dreams of his voice; of how the years of innocent talks and then these last years of not so innocent words they exchanged but never acted on haunt her nights; of how she misses the kisses he placed on her lips and neck; how electric it all made her feel and left her yearning for more. How can she confess these things to him without causing both of them to sin yet again? Who is there to offer absolution?

She keeps herself to herself, diligently trying to avert her gaze from him when they are in the same space. She tries in vain to close her ears to his voice when he leads the prayers or the hymns, but his voice floats above all the others and rests heavy on her heart.  
He revels in the grandeur of it all. This edifice of stone, brick, and marble that he calls home. Every morning as the sun rises just above the horizon, he sits, alone, and drinks in the majesty of this place. He marvels at the work of the stone mason who knew exactly where to place his chisel and exactly how hard to strike the anvil fracturing the stone in just the right way so that thousands of stones were cobbled together to fashion walls, alcoves, and vaulted ceilings. He never ceases to be amazed at the skill with which the glazier set the colored glass into place to create the mosaic that became stories that anyone man or child could read.

He tries to focus on these things rather than the deep and never-ending pain that rises in his chest with every breath.

He stands before all of them and wonders if they know how much his heart breaks. Wonders if they know that his heart is divided between duty and faith and the woman who sits just before him in front of the them. He thinks of her, standing there in all black, the clarity of her voice ringing above the others as they sing the hymns, but her voice hangs just there, above all the others like the thorn of a delicate rose pricking at his heart creating a most beautiful, exquisite pain.

You'll say he doesn't want you  
But his lips will stay to haunt you  
When you know the lonely hours

She has tried to convince herself that he doesn't want her; he's not come to her since that last night they shared together. The last night when she told him that if he ever wanted to exchange the vestments he wore for the rich red ones of a cardinal that they would have to give one another up; that he had worked too hard and been too diligent and that she would not stand in his way. She remembers the feel of his linen tunic against her hands as she slipped his robes over his shoulders, tied the sash at his waist, and kissed him one final time. Her lips still burn with the sensation of that night. Perhaps, she reckons, that it her punishment for loving him; that he will always be with her, no matter the pain that it causes her.

Lowering her head to her pillow, she pulls the covers over her shoulder, then snuffs out the candle. When darkness engulfs the room, she wonders if he feels what she does; if he feels completely void; simply going through the motions of life; all rote and repetition. She counts through the beads, her lips moving silently; she prays every night for wisdom, for direction; that God's will be done; that her broken heart will heal.

You'll swear that you cannot hear him  
Even though you're nowhere near him  
When you know the lonely hours

She tries to close her ears to his voice but he is Christ's vicar on earth and every stone, every corridor of the abbey rings with the dulcet echoes of his voice. Every birth, death, marriage, every homily, and consecration carries his refrain and she is there for each of them lending her support. She cannot shake the man wherever she goes. She wonders if, after all this time, he still feels the same about her.

He cannot rid her from his mind. In every woman that crosses his path, he sees her. In the mother whose child he christens, he imagines her, the beaming mother holding their sparkly blue-eyed, fair-skinned, round-bellied babe. In the woman in the village, he sees her; going about her business, fetching the goods that she needs for their family. He sees her everywhere, in every woman.

And yet you know that love  
Can make your broken heart mend  
'Cause love began it all  
And only love can end the lonely hours

His feet chill against the stone floor yet he barely notices; he's alone as the sun rises on a cold winter's morning and it has been months since he's visited her. He's come to pray as he does every morning and finds that the well of his words has run dry. He's sought absolution for both himself and her, for what they've done, what they've thought of doing, and that his heart is still torn between two loves. He begs for an answer as to how he can love this woman, yet minister as he's been called.

He's heard of other men, other men of God who in their rebellion, in this age of reformation have left the Church and joined up with the Reformers; clergy who've married women; good and noble women. These men, who, like him are versed in the Holy Scriptures, who've searched them through, passage after passage, line by line, word for word, looking for the face of God have rallied against tradition but he has resisted the new teachings, resisted the allure of discarding of hundreds of years of tradition because if anything he is a man of habit and he is frightened. Perhaps if she were by his side, if only he could speak with her, if she could guide him through this, guide them through these deep waters they could break away. But he cannot; his heart, the heart that beats for her is shrouded in what he's stood for all these years, what he has taught his people and how can he go back on it all now. Perhaps, it is for him to suffer.

And together his suffering is hers.  
And for him to cause her suffering makes him suffer all the more.

And yet you know that love  
Can make your broken heart mend  
'Cause love began it all  
And only love can end the lonely hours

 

1548

She has watched him grow older; silver filament streaks his hair and only makes him more handsome to her; his cheeks are fuller now and his belly rounded, but his chest and shoulders are still broad and his voice is still strong and commanding. He's still gracious to his parishioners, to her when they meet, when they have the business of the parish to discuss. But they are careful not to linger; they are careful to always have another in their presence. She doesn't trust herself with him, not even all these years later. The wound in her heart is still there, still festering. Perhaps a whisper, a touch, a press of his lips to hers would heal her.  
She wonders sometimes if she should have left all those years ago. Perhaps she should have gone back to her parents' farm and tried to lure a suitor when she was still young enough, still pert enough, and could bear some man strong, healthy sons. Perhaps she could have accepted the advances of the Burns' lad from the next farm over and married. Perhaps she'd have been a mother to a brood of strong, ruddy cheeked lads like their father and pretty girls with dark hair and a hint of mischief in their eyes like her. By now perhaps she'd even be a grandmother with a fat little bairn to hold and kiss his rosy little cheeks; but there is no need to look back on something that never was, because she is where she wants to be – with him in whatever way she can be. Maybe things will change one day. She wishes she could either change things or forget him.

She wishes she were stronger.

In his eyes she has grown only more beautiful as the years have passed. He sees little but her face and hands, but it is enough. It is enough to see the porcelain silk of her cheeks, the plump pink satin of her lips, the sapphire of her eyes, eyes that hide a sadness that only he can see; sadness that he placed there. Sadness that only he can take away. She is beautiful and after all of these years he still wants her. He wants the late night conversations, the companionship, the things that were hinted at, and the things that haunt his dreams. If he had been stronger they could have married, had a cottage filled with children.

If he were stronger.

He's heard that Parliament has overturned the rule that has bound him to this miserable state for so long and his heart leaps with joy, before he sucks in a sharp breath and drops his head into his hands. Now that he can offer himself to her and continue in God's service, will she want him? So many years have passed and she has been her own person for so long. What does he have to offer her now? He's an old man, paunchy and graying. He cannot offer her anything but himself. His heart is broken, but it will surely be irreparably damaged if she were to refuse him.

Perhaps, he daren't ask her now? Perhaps she doesn't love him as he still loves her?

'Cause love began it  
And only love can end the lonely hours

She's heard the news of Parliament's decision, but he's not come to her; he's not come running through the stone corridors of the abbey, across the courtyards, and to her rooms to ask for her hand. She's waited a month, stood at her door listening for his footfall, for any sound that foretold his approach, yet she's been denied. She feels a fool for believing in a dream that is never to be; perhaps she's been holding on to something that is more a fairytale than ever was reality; the cruel tricks of an aging mind.

The letter from her sister isn't the solution that she's hoped for, it isn't the balm that will heal her wounds, but at least it will cover them from further injury. Becky and her husband have been receptive, welcomed her to their home with open arms, assured her that there is a place for her on the farm. They've a nice place and it'll be nice to be sisters again, to catch up on all the time they've missed. And Becky's told her of the little village church where she can be helpful if she likes, there is an orphanage attached. Becky suggested that she can devote some of her time there; after all the poor wee bairns need some cuddling. She's already told the priest of Elsie's impending arrival. Becky writes that he's thrilled to have someone of Elsie's talents in the parrish. No doubt that she'll be kept busy, Becky writes.

So in the lonely, still hours of the early morning when the sun sleepily rouses from its slumber, she packs the few possessions that she owns; for a lifetime devoted to others she is little more than a pauper but such has been her life and she doesn't regret it.

After she's packed the last of her things, she takes one last glance around her room, a final goodbye to the place that's sheltered her, haunted her, been her respite and her torment. She will miss it, miss the memories that these walls hold, but she cannot endure this any longer; she has served her penance.

Her last act of love, will be to free them both from this hell that they are in.  
The morning's air stings against his face and burns his lungs, but he doesn't much notice as he trudges through the courtyard past the rose bushes that hang heavy with dew. He has trod the same path for eighteen years of mornings hoping to see her, hoping that she will be there, a shadow among the shadows. If only she were there for a moment he might believe she feels as he does; that their hearts are still entwined. His steps carry him past the courtyard and into the open field where he looks off into the distance and catches sight of a lone figure, satchel in hand, talking with a man who's dismounting from a horse. The priest scrubs a hand through his hair and then wipes a tear from his eye. His eyes narrow in concentration just before realization dawns; he's waited too long.

She's leaving.

To accept it is the last thing that he can do for her, for them. Because he has tarried, stood too long on the cold, unforgiving stone of tradition, she's taken the steps to redemption. She's given them absolution.


	2. In the Lonely Hour

I need someone, that I'll look to,  
In the lonely hour, that we all go through  
To give me comfort, and love me through

 

The priest submits to the feeling of panic that rises in his breast before succumbing to stunned silence as he watches the scene unfold before him. It is as if he is being pulled under by some great tidal wave and though he kicks against it, the flailing of his arms and legs is futile against the current. With furrowed brow and tears stinging his eyes, he watches as she talks with the dark haired man who has ridden in on the grey horse. He watches as the two exchange a greeting and embrace; the tall man rubs a hand across her back, an affectionate gesture as he comforts her. Charles wonders who this man is. Is he someone she knows from the village? A man who found himself in need of a wife? A former suitor come to rekindle an old romance?

 

This man who's traveled the rough course down from Scotland in the chilled weather of early spring, come to bring her home to a place that's not been her home since she was a girl in her father’s house bustling about her mother’s kitchen, is not unknown to her, but he’s a stranger nonetheless. She’s never met him and only knows of him through the letters she’s received from his mother. He has her sister’s piercing blue eyes, a trait common to all the Hugheses, but the former Abbess’s nephew, is a tall lad, with a long face and square jaw, a solid frame, and sturdy build and she sees that he is more MacLean than Hughes, after all. Elsie wonders if he has inherited the Hughes temperament, the quick flare of temper and the sharp tongue that must needs tempering at every turn; she wonders if he draws from the same deep well of kindness from which her father and her father’s father drew. 

As he dismounts his steed and plants his feet solidly on terra firma, he calls her name and it has been so long since she has heard her name called from the lips of a kinsman that she weeps. Her nephew reaches out and draws her into his embrace. She feels foolish for crying; the mere mention of her name in her the sounds of her homeland ought not make her cry but she is tightly wound and the tears fall easily. She finds respite in the embrace of Hugh MacLean, the nephew who’s ridden day and night to come bring her to her sister’s house; perhaps familial love is all that she is destined; the embrace and comforting words of blood kin who she barely knows rather than the man that her heart longs for.

She wipes her tears away with the back of her hand and gently pulls away from her nephew. She manages the smallest hint of a smile and tells him that they oughtn’t dawdle; there isn’t any reason to tarry she tells herself. There is nothing and no one to keep her here any longer. A fortnight ago Downton Abbey was ordered closed and its lands confiscated by order of the King. One of the last abbeys ordered closed in Yorkshire, Downton has been sold to a prominent family called Crawley; George Crawley, recently installed as Earl Grantham, has been a solid supporter of His Majesty in all endeavours both foreign and domestic and the King has duly rewarded him; though many argued the reward was more the enlargement of crown’s coffers. There is no doubt that Earl Grantham will build a grand manor house around the abbey; what is a testament to God will soon to be a testament to the political and social aspirations of man. There are only three sisters of the faith left in residence and they too are soon to return to their families. Anna Smith will be the last to leave. At the end of the month, she will shutter each of the rooms and hand over the keys to the ancient oak timbered front entrance doors to the King’s newly appointed minister. Downton Abbey as it has existed for three centuries will fade into memory; it’s true purpose forgotten. 

Charles watches as the dark-haired man gently nudges his heels into the horse’s ribs and encourages the animal to move along. As the fog begins to lift, his eyes fall on the small cart that trails behind the horse and the woman who sits upon a fresh bed of sweet straw, her satchel in her lap. She looks up, catches his gaze, her gentle eyes flooded with tears. He hopes that she will call for the horseman to halt, to stop in his tracks; hopes that now that she’s seen him, she will change her mind. That she will stay with him.

But the horseman doesn’t stop. 

Charles doesn’t follow.

 

I need you  
I need you

 

His rest is anything but peaceful as their last conversations play over in his mind. He tries anything and everything to drive her voice from his mind, but in the dark stillness of his rooms, her voice inhabits every corner of mind. He hears fragments of conversations they’ve had over the many years of their acquaintance; from how she helped to deliver the Wigan woman’s child, a long, tortuous labor, the babe born an assaulting purple-blue, his limbs contorted like that of a twisted rag; he’d been shocked when he arrived to offer the last rites, but she was strong until later, when it was just them, talking in her rooms and he saw that sadness in her eyes that night; he held her hand and allowed her to cry over the loss of that dear babe. He remembers one of their last conversations. He remembers how his heart stirred when she’d told him of finding the little cottage on the edge of the wood; it meant that she would be nearby in her retirement. She had encouraged him to take the position of vicar at St. Michael’s All Angels in the village. 

He needs her. 

The horse needs rest and food and the night’s air is turning cold and damp and even if he could push the animal farther, Hugh worries that his aunt will become chilled to the bone and the few hours they might lose by stopping will not make much difference in the long run. Elsie is thankful for her nephew’s consideration, for while she was born a farm girl, she’s been accustomed to the security of Downton Abbey for most of her adult life; accustomed to the warmth of a well-stoked fire on cold nights and a full stomach when others might have gone hungry. 

They have stopped at an inn for the night; it is more a public house with a smattering of plain, but tidy rooms above a common room yet Hugh fusses that it might be an unsuitable place for his aunt to spend the night, what with men and women of all sorts drinking pint after pint of ale and using language that would make the saltiest of sailors blush. As they mount the steep stairs headed toward their rooms, a man and a woman stumble past them. Protectively, Hugh places his arm around Elsie’s shoulders and draws her to his side. He glares after the the couple and grumbles a warning, before he asks his aunt if they’ve done her any harm. She assures him that while she’s been sequestered away at Downton, she’s seen her fair share of drunkards and heard enough swear words to fill a book; she’s tended enough fallen women, patched up the wounds they’ve received from men who’ve abused them and mended hearts shattered by broken promises. Part of her work, he reminds him, was to attend all those in need in the village, not just those who were always righteous. “I’m made of strong mettle,” she confides.

Strong mettle.

Until she thinks of him. 

She weeps into her pillow. 

 

I don't need diamonds, I don't need jewels  
No amount of riches will cover up these blues  
I don't need suggestions, on how to start anew  
In the lonely hour, I need you

 

When she arrives at the farm, the family all turns out to meet her. Some of them she remembers, vague images flickers through her mind illuminating memories of long ago. Some of them she meets for the first time – nieces and nephews, all grown with babes of their own; they are a brood that Alasdair and Becky have every right to be proud of but after she has greeted each one of them, given special attention to each one of the babes and answered the questions of her kin, it is to her sister Becky that she clings. Laughter mixes with tears; reunion and resignation muddled together.

They’ve slaughtered a lamb and laid out all of the trimmings; it makes her somehow feel the like prodigal come home. Laughter and stories old and new float down the table with ease and babies cooing sets her heart all a flutter. She cannot help but wonder if they, her and him together, gone a different way might have had a brood like this this to call their own. Daughters and sons, grandchildren all gathered round; laughter and stories, memories made and memories to make. 

 

With the purchase of Downton Abbey complete and the Crawleys soon to take possession, Saint Michael’s and All Angels’s is the new seat of the diocese. Of course Saint Michael’s isn’t as resplendent as Downton Abbey; not much is save the grand cathedrals: York, Lincoln, and Westminster. Canterbury. But he gave up all pretense at being at the helm of one of those long ago. Ten years ago he was in line to move down to York as personal secretary to the Archbishop. After agonizing over the decision, the implications both personal and professional, he declined reasoning that the people of the Downton diocese needed him more; that if he left, he would regret it his whole life long. He was thankful that the Archbishop did not question him further, did not insist upon an explicit reason for his refusal of such a grand promotion that would have put him so close to the seat of religious power in England. How could he explain that he was giving all of that up for the abbess to whom his heart belongs; the woman to whom his life is tethered? 

 

There's nothing I can do  
I'm helpless without you

 

He stands at the center of this grand stone temple surveying his new assignment and he realizes that while everything is essentially the same – he will read from the same prayer book, offer the same sacraments, hear the troubles of his people and offer them resolutions – nothing is the same. If the motions were not mechanical, his very bones trained in the repetitive mechanics of it all, if the words were not engraved on his tongue, he doubts that he could manage the service. All of the familiar faces will be in attendance and he’s heard that the Crawleys are to put in an appearance as well. Not only have the family staked their claim to Downton Abbey, but now Charles figures, they are to stake their claim to the entire village that comes with it.

Things will go smoothly because they always do when Charles Carson is in charge. Everything is the same. 

Only it isn’t. 

She isn’t here. 

He feels the great weight of her absence. It is as if he stands on the edge of the shore, his feet planted on the sand, and the tide rushes out taking the sand with it leaving him unbalanced. It was her steadying presence on which he relied. Something in his breast pulls tight; the tether that binds them together.

 

The whole family files into the village kirk and Elsie stands next to her sister. Every one of them has their eyes trained on her, watching to see this former sister in her element, now in their presence for the first time. They wonder how she will react to now being one of them, one of the ordinary folk. Elsie has assured them that she was only ever ordinary, that the only extraordinary thing about her was where she lived and worked. Indeed, to live and work in God’s house, on consecrated ground was something she cherished; something to which she was devoted.

But she is uneasy as a sadness sweeps over her. She prays for strength; prays that God will mend her broken heart and cover the wound that Charles Carson has left on her soul. She questions why he did not come for her, why he stood by and watched her leave when he so very easily could have stopped her. And as suddenly as a summer’s storm clouds on the horizon, she’s angry. With tightly clasped hands and clenched jaw, sadness flashes into anger. She’s angry at herself. Angry at Charles. Angry at life. It’s as if everything she’s known was a lifetime ago.

She feels more at ease once service is over and the villagers curiosity over the Abbess returned home is abated. The family has walked back to the farm for Sunday dinner and The brisk walk has done her good. She’s had the good fortune to speak with Miss Rebecca, Hugh’s youngest. At ten, she’s a pretty little thing with deep blue eyes, round face, and curly ginger hair; her mother’s daughter, she stands out among the rest of the family with their dark hair angular features, but it suits her, Elsie thinks. It’s good to stand apart sometimes, to stake one’s place in the family. The girl is expressive both in speech and gesture; a character, her father calls her. She’s made Elsie genuinely laugh, without reservation, and for that she’s thankful. The girl’s clever wit and conversation has provided a pleasant distraction.

The conversation at the dinner table turns to matters of religion and politics and Elsie is happy to be in the thick of it. Most of them are surprised that she is a reformist; they are more surprised with the facility with which she freely discusses the nuances of the new theology. Alasdair remarks that perhaps Elsie has been down south too long and its right that she’s back in the bosom of her family; the implication is not lost on her. Though Alasdair is a good man, he’s been good to Becky and a fine provider and while he and Elsie got on well enough when they were younger, she fixes him with a steely glare. She’ll keep her own counsel because she’s grateful that he’s received her into his home and she’ll not dare challenge his authority as head of his household, but she quickly realizes that while she may not be a woman of the world, she’s no longer a farm girl in need of a man to tell her what to think. 

Charles never told her what to think.   
As if he could.

 

It's a lonesome point of view  
When there's a wishful silence, in an empty room  
These other voices, they don't cut through  
In the lonely hour, I need you.

 

Charles picks at his food, moves it about on his dish without really eating much of it and not for the first time in these past four months, the ruddy-cheeked, flamed-haired, sharp-tongued woman employed as his housekeeper and cook tears a strip off him. She is both offended that he has rejected her cooking and worried that he is losing weight. Most days he manages an argument, tells her to mind her own counsel, but today he simply grumbles in dissatisfaction before he pushes his chair back, the sound of the wooden legs scraping against the stone tiles sharp and jarring. The cook tries to rile him to anger, calls after him telling him that she’ll not prepare for him one more meal, that she’ll not waste another moment of her time seeing after a man who does not appreciate her efforts, but Charles simply stalks off like a wounded lion nursing damaged paw. 

“Best not pull them,” the cook drawls when she finds Charles standing in the garden. “It’s bad luck.” Charles simply hums in acknowledgement. He wonders what would happen it he plucked the tiny blossoms from the stem, would fairies suddenly descend to cast a spell damning him to unhappiness for the remainder of his life? How could they doom him to a fate any worse than what he is living now? Could anything be worse than the profound loneliness that he feels though he is surrounded by friends and parishioners?

“I’ll only say this,” the cook begins as she stands beside the man in whose employ she’s served for a decade, “my mother once told me that what the eye doesn’t see the heart’ll not grieve over, but I don’t think that’s always true. If you love her, then go after her. Bring her home.”


	3. If I Needed You, pt. 1

If I needed you  
Would you come to me  
Would you come to me  
For to ease my pain  
If you needed me  
I would come to you  
I would swim the seas  
For to ease your pain 

Well the night's forlorn  
And the morning's born  
And the morning shines  
With the lights of love  
And you'll miss sunrise  
If you close your eyes  
And that would break  
My heart in two 

 

“If you love her, then go after her. Bring her home.”

 

September. Scotland. 

 

The sun sits high on its perch, its broad face radiating copper warmth down onto the MacLean farm while bronzing the faces and arms of Hugh MacLean, his four brothers, their wives and children as they bring in the flax harvest. There’s only cerulean sky as far as the eye can see, and not a cloud has been seen for days, nor the threat of a drop of rain and Elsie is thankful. Not just because the family’s good fortune depends on a successful harvest but if she’s honest she can be a bit melancholy on autumn days when the clouds hover low and the sky seems as if it is resting on her shoulders.

When she’s wondered if she’s done the right thing, come home to Scotland, to the rolling purple and blue hills and the green valleys, to the craggy outcrops that border the loch, to the simple, utilitarian byre house with its sod walls and curved timber roof, she looks out to her kinsmen, hears the women chattering and singing as they work and the men telling tall tales, and she smiles. It isn’t Yorkshire or Downton, but that life isn’t to be. Not any longer. She accepted that notion a while ago. She’s made an uneasy peace with it. 

“There’s a man come to see Auntie Elsie” Rebecca announces in a sing-song voice as she peeks into kitchen where her grandmother busies herself chopping root vegetables for the night’s supper while Elsie has her hands wrist deep in a wooden bowl filled with bread dough. 

“Must be Joe,” Elsie smiles. “Rois’s time must be nearing. I must say, Joe and Pàdair are excited about the birth of that bairn. More excited than Rois, I believe.” Elsie drapes a flannel over the bowl then sets it near the window. She dusts her hands on her apron, then unties and sets it aside. She has to admit that it’s nice to be back in a farmhouse kitchen, with her hands busy in the preparation of the family’s meals and her mind distracted from things that cause her heart a dull ache.

“And you’re a bit excited yourself, hmm?” Becky asks with a wink.

“Perhaps,” Elsie answers, her smile growing wider. In the months since she’s been home, Joseph Burns, has become a frequent visitor to the farm. His is not an unwelcome presence; Joe is a kind man, his countenance soft, his words gentle, his presence is satisfyingly comfortable; he is everything Elsie remembers him to be from their days as children on adjoining farms. 

Theirs was, still is, a life of diligence and hard work, the two families close by both proximity and affection; his father and hers, mates from the time of their youth, the Hughes girls and the Burns sisters all gathering in the common fields during the harvest, all coupled with the unspoken understanding that Joe and Elsie might one day marry tied the Burns and the Hughes clans up in all sorts of knots; until Margaret Burns insisted that her elder daughter get away from it all. That she not be tied to the cycle of the farm with its endless worries of failed crops, the burden a string of pregnancies before she reached her thirtieth year, of a babe on each hip while pregnant with yet another, all while working her fingers to the bone. Margaret saw greater things for her daughter, the daughter with a keen mind and facility for learning. Her eldest, her dearest, Elsie, the daughter who first claimed her heart, to whom she gave her name, the one for whom she would give opportunities that farm life could not offer.

“If Joe Burns has his way, that bairn’ll be calling you Gran,” Becky smirks conspiratorially.

“It’s not like that,” Elsie assures her quietly. And it is not like that; if only Becky knew. If only Becky knew that no man, not even Joe Burns with his kind eyes and gentle manner can turn her sister’s head or capture her heart, because Charles Carson already occupies her every free thought and her heart will be his until its last beat.

“But Auntie, it isn’t Mr. Burns that’s come,” Rebecca interjects. “It’s someone else.”

“Who is it then?” Becky asks before Elsie can ask for herself.

“He didn’t say, but he’s a giant man with great eyebrows and a deep voice. A frown too. Like this,” Rebecca answers, dropping her voice low and exaggeratedly contorting her face into a deep scowl, before smiling mischievously and giggling. The corner of Elsie’s mouth twitches up slightly in amusement. Rebecca Hughes MacLean might be named for her grandmother, but she has a bit of her auntie’s spirit about her and Elsie cannot help but take pride in that. 

“Rebecca, perhaps you should fetch your Granda,” Becky advises seriously as she flicks her wrist and motions for the girl to make her way into the byre in search of of her grandfather. 

“It’s all right,” Elsie replies, raising her hand, waving off her sister’s suggestion. “I believe that I know who he is.” Elsie purses her lips, pushes her tongue hard against her teeth, before she twists her lips into a tight, half smile. She places a hand on her sister’s elbow and squeezes; a reassurance for her sister, though inside Elsie feels a bundle of nerves, like captured lightening, raging for someplace to strike.

 

If I needed you  
Would you come to me  
Would you come to me  
For to ease my pain  
If you needed me  
I would come to you  
I would swim the seas  
For to ease your pain 

 

His back is turned to her when she finds him standing along the old hedge row. His horse tied to an old fence post, Charles leans against a remnant of the fence, the weight of his burden evident in the downward curve of his shoulders and the way that he shifts his weight from his right foot to his left; Elsie knows that he is in pain, that his has been an arduous journey. 

Their footsteps carry them away from the house, but not away from Alasdair’s watchful eye. From his place in the byre, he watches as Elsie, brushes her hand through the visiting man’s hair, tenderly pushing it from his forehead, before she allows her hand to drop to his shoulder and then trace down his arm. Alasdair watches as she turns and in her purposeful stride, square-shouldered, regal, sure of foot, makes her way down past the byre, and toward the branch that traces along the edge of the meadow. The man who has come to see her, tall, robust in frame, proud in his carriage, follows a pace behind her, his hands clenched tightly together behind his back, his head slightly bowed, his hair shining resplendently silver in the sunlight. The whole scene reminds Alasdair of an old story he once heard of a young soldier who’s wife had seen him proudly off into battle. Every night, sat by the hearth, she had awaited his return, never believing him lost. Season after season went by until she’d aged into white hair and wrinkled skin. And one day, when she thought she was but dreaming, he returned. Though the man who returned was old, grey, and broken, all the woman saw was the young man she had once known; the old soldier didn’t see his wife’s wrinkled skin and white hair, instead, he only saw the face of the young woman whose love had been his beacon home. Alasdair wonders what battle has separated the two people he’s watched walk through his meadow. He wonders, if like the couple of the old legend, love will be sweeter the second time around. 

When they’ve reached the brook, she stops and takes a deep breath. She can feel him behind her, feel his presence and the tension between them is palpable, tangible evidence that theirs is a tie that has not been severed by time nor space.

“Things have changed,” he tells her.

“Have they?” She asks without turning to look at him. She will not look at him because she mustn’t; she mustn’t believe that what she is feeling is true or real. She mustn’t believe that he has ridden these many miles, come to her broken, hoping for a life she had long thought passed.

“You know of the new decision …”

“I do,” she nods in affirmation. “But what does it change? You knew long ago that I would have left for you. I left because of you.”

“I know that,” Charles concedes, his voice quiet and broken as he reaches for her hand, her fingers rigid yet she does not pull away. He knows that in his stubbornness, in his inflexibility he drove her from retirement in a quite cottage near him, from the possibility of a shared life in bishop’s house to this place where they stand now. It is he who seeks absolution. 

“Clerical marriage has long been accepted …” she risks finally looking at him. 

“But it is officially recognized now,” he counters. Can she not understand that this is where the difference lies? He sighs heavily as he loosens his grip on her. “I’d have never wanted you to hide some secret marriage or have our children marked out as bastards.” He pauses, his voice dropping to a mere whisper floating across the gentle rolling water. “I never wanted you to be someone, our marriage to be something other women whispered about. I loved you too much for that. But things have changed Elsie, things can change if you want them to.”

She turns, walks a few paces beyond him and to sit on a rock that has been smoothed by years of wind, water, and ice. She tucks her legs to her chest, flares her skirts around her and here, like this and in this place, Charles can clearly picture the girl that she once was; all chiseled cheekbones and blushing cheeks dotted with freckles, mouth with curving, smiling lips, sapphire eyes twinkling with mischief, and a voice of gentle throaty laughter; her chestnut hair streaked with hints of cinnamon and burnished copper, long and flowing in the breeze. In this moment, he knows that in her, that in every woman, the girl is somewhere deep inside. The girl, who before life’s experience has hardened her, has made her fence off her heart and made her words harsh, is tender of heart and soft of spirit. 

“Are you happy?” He asks sitting down next to her. 

“They have welcomed me. I have a purpose here. At the orphanage and in the village I’m being useful. People need me.” She hears the words spill across her tongue and while they are true, they have no real measure of conviction; there is no passion when she says them independent of that which she tries to unconvincingly invoke. 

“But are you happy?” His question is simple enough. To be needed is important to her, a binding thread of her character that is part of the very fiber of the complex and beautiful tapestry that is Elsie Hughes. But he presses her; he must be sure of her answer.

“Are you?” She answers with her own inquiry, her head whipping round, her eyes red and glassy with tears and fully meeting his.

“I think you know the answer to that Elsie. I wouldn’t be here if I were happy.”

“I don’t understand you,” she confesses. Why has he come to upset her life now when he could have stopped all of this before it well and truly started? Why has he let her settle in? Let her make friendships in the village? Work so hard to leave Downton and him behind when all she wanted was to have both of them. “Why have you come here after all of these months when you could have come to me before. Before I left even.”

He fumbles for words, his hand gesturing, an outward manifestation of the struggle to answer her. He’s no answer for why he didn’t come to her, why he didn’t steal away during the night to her, sweep her up and declare his love for her. Or why he didn’t march into the Abbess’s office in the boldness of broad daylight for all to see and with a flourish offer himself to her. He has no answer, except that his struggling heart, torn between tradition and love wouldn’t allow it; that her closeness, her companionship in cloaked in the formality of their station was enough. 

Until it wasn’t.

Until she left. 

Until now. 

Elsie sighs, glances down at her hands folded across her lap.

“I want you to come back.” His declaration slashes across the silence like a scythe across a row of tall grass ready for the cutting.

“As what? Your housekeeper? Your cook? I don’t think that Mrs. Patmore would take kindly to my replacing her.” 

“You’ve a sharp tongue, woman. Too sharp.”

In her anger, her hurt, the need to shield her heart from further pain, a veil of silence drops between them and she turns away from him. She knows that she’s been sharp with him, that he’s come on bended knee, swallowed his pride, pushed it down deep, and is asking her to be his wife. That after all these years, he has finally come prepared to give himself to her and he is asking that she accept him. But she is determined to make him say the words, to make him say that he wants her not because he misses her devotion to him, her steadfastness, not because he wants her as a companion to grow old with, but that he wants her for all those things wrapped up in the intimacies of being his wife. She will take nothing less.

“Elsie, I came here because I want you …”

“Auntie Elsie, Auntie Elsie,” Rebecca’s breathless call rings out across the meadow and Elsie turns to find her niece running as fast as her feet will carry her. 

“Rebecca, what on earth is it?” Elsie asks as she meets the girl half the distance and catches her up by the arms.

“It’s Mister Burns,” her niece manages between heaving breaths, “he’s asking for you. It’s time.”

“Oh my, well then,” Elsie smiles, her eyes lighting up as she runs her hand over Rebecca’s hair. “Go and tell Joe that I’ll be along. I’ll need to gather my things.”

Elsie turns to find Charles standing silently; he realizes that she is needed and valued in the village and that by the way her eyes are smiling, she is at least in part happy. He wonders if he has done the right thing, coming here, seeking her out again. Is he right to disrupt this life that she has made? 

“Joe Burns’s grandchild is due and I am to be there for the birth,” Elsie tells him. “I must be going, but if you’d like to stay or perhaps …”

“Might I walk with you?”


	4. If I Needed You, pt. 2

If I needed you   
Would you come to me   
Would you come to me   
For to ease my pain 

 

Charles listens. 

The medley of voices in the Burns’s cottage is a composition of swirling ebullience. The bright metallic tones of the local gossips floats in the air, warn and lively; their tempered excitement contagious. The tenor voices of Joe and Padair swirling with concern and understandably so. Joe and his late wife Mary lost three children before they reached the age of three; all dead of fever. But of the voices singing this excited melody, it is Elsie’s contralto that manages to rise above the others and Charles is enamored with it. She bustles around the cottage with energy and enthusiasm, her skirts swishing furiously, as she marshals the women with gentle commanding words. 

From his vantage point in the common room, Charles watches with fascination as Elsie attends to the matter of preparing to deliver this woman of her babe. Gathering dark linens and tapestries she hangs them from the windows and the door, brings candles into the room, and directs the gathering of bowls, linens, and string. After collecting a pestle, a bowl, and a handful of herbs, Elsie stands at the table in front of Charles, looks up and grins, her eyes are dancing, and he knows that she’s happy. New life is about to enter the world and she’s to be a part of it all; a selfish part of him hopes that perhaps a portion of her happiness might be that she’s pleased he’s there. A moment of understanding passes between them, a secret electric undercurrent that no one else in the place can share. They are a team; she has assisted in countless births around Downton and he attended. Together they’ve prayed over and comforted dying mothers and their babes, baptized swaddled infants, and with proud families celebrated the introduction of their babes into the community. Placing the handful of herbs she’s collected into a bowl and stamping them down, Elsie crushes them into a fine paste. None of the men dare ask what they are for, but Charles knows. He feels a private joy that he has insights that none of the other men have. He shares some of her knowledge; he is a part of her world. 

 

If I needed you   
Would you come to me   
Would you come to me   
For to ease my pain 

 

“She is a fine woman, Elsie,” Joe mentions casually, his cheeks pinking. The day is drawing long and Joe’s reserve is waning as he lifts another cup of ale to his lips and drinks. However, the warm tone in his words and warmth in his cheeks isn’t lost on Charles. He knows that neither is due to the cider that Joe’s drinking, but to something else and Downton’s bishop stiffens, purses his lips, at the compliment that the farmer pays Elsie. Deep down Charles knows that he hasn’t the right to be offended by anything that Joe says regarding Elsie’s fine qualities; she isn’t his to defend, isn’t his wife, not even his betrothed. They’ve been nothing to one another save friends and for the last handful of years distant friends at that. Purposefully distant friends. Painfully distant. Charles picks at his fingernails, takes the finger between two others and tugs on the edge of the nail; it is a nervous habit he’s had since boyhood and he has to fight the urge to bring it to his mouth and bite at it. With every adoring word that flows from Joe's mouth Charles's heartstrings tug, pangs of jealousy pierce the hard shell over his heart. 

“She's come home to the bosom of her kin, of her friends, and I must say that I am glad of it," Joe beams. "It’s nice to have a friendly woman pottering ‘round the kitchen, I’ll not deny it.”

Charles clears his throat and fights the urge to remind Joe that his wife has barely been in the grave six months, dying in the very bed in which Rois labours with his grandchild. Charles tries in vain to drive from his mind the picture of Elsie enjoying the gardens or commanding the household of the bishop’s house in Downton and loved by a man who if he lost her would rather be put in the ground with her than to go on living. But he supposes that it is the way of things; he’s seen it often enough in Downton when a wife dies. The husband needs a woman about the place and marries the first agreeable one he finds. 

 

Baby's with me now   
Since I showed her how   
To lay   
Her lilly   
Hand in mine   
Who would ill agree   
She's a sight to see   
A treasure for   
The poor to find 

 

Soon a flurry of activity buzzes about the place and the gossips talk animatedly among themselves, as they scurry about the place. Elsie is heard giving orders and Charles knows by the tone in her voice that the time of delivery is nearing. Suddenly, he is overcome with feelings of pride that she, this woman who caught up his heart so long ago in the silken thread of her expertly woven web, will soon bring another life into the world. When the piercing cries of Rois Burns’s first born fill the cottage, Padair and Joe shout with relief and happiness, clapping one another on the back in congratulations. An heir has been born, a son to carry on the family name and one day inherit the farm. They’ve not paid much attention to the workings of the midwife, to the rituals that she works through with mechanical precision. Rubbed down with salt and bathed, the babe wrinkled and pink, protests as Elsie binds him in cloths guaranteed to grow his limbs long and straight like his father’s. The babe draws his face into a frown and cries when she washes a vinegar-soaked finger across his tongue. “So you’ll have the facility of words, my lamb.” Then, to wash away the bitterness and encourage the child to suckle, she dredges the tip of her smallest finger across the top of the honey pot and baths the inside of the child’s mouth; the little one immediately begins to suckle and Charles feels something clench in his chest. The look of adoration on Elsie’s face as the babe draws his tiny mouth around her finger and suckles, causes him to wonder: what if? What if she’d been midwife to their own grandchildren, attending them in this loving way? What if the little one she holds was their grandson instead of Joe Burns? What if? Elsie and the child withdraw from the adoring and proud eyes of the menfolk and back to the lying in room where she lays the babe wrapped in soft, clean linen with his mother and as he begins to suckle at his mother’s breast Elsie attends to the other things, the things that will ensure his mother a good recovery.

After she’s satisfied that Rois has been well attended and will recover well, Elsie leaves the new mother in the company of her friends and the other gossips. She sets about tidying up the cottage. Bustling around the kitchen with energy, she has one final ritual to attend. Where the men have built a fire, she places the more herbs and cord that bound mother and son together and sees that it burns completely. It is an old ritual she learned from her mother and her mother from hers. She’s not sure if this rite of fire actually cleanses away the original sin committed during the act of conception; for what sin could there be in the creation of such a beautiful thing as a child? But she she carries out the ritual anyway, because she always has and it is custom. The Church has forbade such things, but out here in the countryside where animals and their masters share a house, what does it really matter if it gives the family a little comfort to tie them to their ancestors? While it burns she she pours a another cup of ale for the men. 

Before too long, Pàdair drunk on both joy and his father’s apple ale, excuses himself to be with his wife and child. His elders smile as he stumbles happily to the bed where his wife and infant son lie.

Charles is happy for them, for Joe to have a grandchild that he can hold dear and watch grow, a child who will, before he realizes it, sprout up like a weed in the garden. He is pleased for Pàdair and Rois who will grow infinitely closer, their lives forever linked, tied up together in the legacy that is this little one and any others who may come after him. Charles wonders what his legacy will be.

 

If I needed you   
Would you come to me   
Would you come to me   
For to ease my pain   
If you needed me   
I would come to you   
I would swim the seas   
For to ease your pain 

 

Charles is surprised that he has been invited to go along with the family to the church, but Joe insisted. Any friend of Elsie’s, he said, is a friend of the Burns clan. So they walk the distance to the church where the babe will be baptized, where original sin will be washed away, where his name will be recorded in the parish registers, and he will be officially welcomed into the community and into the church. As they walk, the Bishop and midwife trail behind the others; they’ve had little chance to speak privately since Charles’s arrival and all they spoke of as they made the short journey from the MacLean farm to the Burns place was idle chatter about the baby’s impending arrival. 

“That was quite something,” Charles mentions quietly.

“A birth is always a miracle,” Elsie replies cheerfully. He is so close to her that she wonders if the others notice. Surely Joe must. Elsie isn’t a fool; she realizes that Joe has intentions towards her. Honorable ones no doubt, but intentions all the same. She’s not sure if Becky has encouraged any of it or if she has played match-maker, but there is only one man who holds her heart and he walks beside her now.

“That is true,” Charles chuckles low. “But that isn’t what I meant. I mean that you were wonderful.” Elsie looks up to him, finds Charles eyes twinkling, his countenance sincere. Finding herself at a loss for words at his flattery, she simply says nothing. When she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and her cheeks rise in a small smile, Charles knows that she’s touched. 

“This farmer …”

“… just an old family friend as I told you,” she interrupts.

“After the service what are your plans?” His belly rumbles with nervous anticipation. She knows why he’s come all the way to Scotland. He’s come to bring her home; come to make her his wife. The worry that she will reject him is palpable. 

“Going home. To my sister’s of course” she answers tartly. He hums, a rumble rattles against his ribs; an awkward pause passes between them and she closes her eyes, steeling herself before speaking again. “And yours? What are your plans?” 

With the village church in sight, Charles slows his stride before stopping. 

“You said that you were going home. Where is your home, Elsie? Is it here where your feet are planted or is it where your heart beats?” 

“What are you saying? What do you mean Charles?” She turns to look at him; she finds repentance and contrition.

“If you still want me, we can be married now, in the eyes of God and man. God knows I still want you. I always have. I’ve just been too stubborn to give in. To think I could have you and my place at the church.” There are tears in his eyes and setting her things down, she reaches up to brush his tears away, her fingertips gliding across his cheeks. 

“If I still want you? I’ve wanted nothing else you old fool,” she sighs as he draws her close. Her lips draw to his cheek and she kisses him. “But you must ask properly. After all these years, I think that I deserve that.” 

“So be it then,” Charles smiles as he takes her hands in his. “I should be the happiest and luckiest of men if you would do me the honor of becoming my wife.”


	5. Together Again

Together again  
My tears have stopped falling  
The long lonely nights  
Are now at an end

 

She’s been exquisitely attended by her sister and the other women of her family; they’ve made sure that Charles Carson’s bride is beautifully prepared to meet her new husband. 

She’s never been one for a fuss. She’s a farmer's daughter after all, but Elsie cannot deny that she’s pleased with the new nightdress she’s been gifted and with the way her hair’s been arranged, long and flowing with a wreath of small fresh flowers plaited especially for her. It is all very simple, yet she’s never felt more decadent. 

After turning back the bed linens, Becky whisks the other women from the room. Elsie’s thankful for a bit of quiet after all the well-meaning fuss.   
Grasping Elsie’s hands into her own, Becky pulls her close and the younger sister whispers something into the elder’s ear. Both women smile and a pretty blush colors Elsie’s cheeks. 

Thomas Barrow, Charles’s protégée who’s come from Downton to attend both the wedding and the groom, claps Charles on the shoulder. He has a last word for Charles and Charles grumbles, inclines his head toward the door and Barrow takes the hint. Both he and Becky make their way to the door and when the bedchamber door finally closes behind them, Charles turns the key in the lock. The bolt slips with a click and suddenly man and wife are alone for the first time all day. 

The voices on the other side of the door are familiar and jovial, spirits are high what with ale free-flowing and the piper and a fiddler playing jaunty tunes for the evening’s entertainment. Elsie wonders if the people who are celebrating their wedding are thinking about what she and her new husband will be getting up to now that they’ve been sequestered all alone and that thought causes her to blush furiously, a heat rising from her chest to her cheeks and she thinks these rituals are outmoded; that something so intimate as the coming together of husband and wife is attended by the village is somehow a sacrilege to the sacrament itself. Though she denies that she is a woman of significance, she is a former abbess and her husband is a bishop; a man of substance and power. Theirs is a marriage of both notoriety and importance. 

Becky has promised her that no one will be crouched at the keyhole trying to catch a glimpse of the newly married husband and wife fumbling about the business of negotiating the marital bed. 

Even so, the new bride is thankful for a bolted door.

 

The key to my heart  
You hold in your hand  
And nothing else matters  
We're together again

 

Charles turns, holds the key tightly between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand and its then that she notices that his hand is trembling. He is as nervous as she and his face is bathed in the flickering amber light from the fire, and the flush of embarrassment Elsie feels over whether anyone is concerned with what they will be doing fades and is replaced by something else, something hot and smoldering deep within her, a fire that embers have burned long and steady and has now been given oxygen.

“Bloody impertinence,” she hears her husband huff indigently. 

Elsie feels the corner of her lips tug upward into a smile as he blusters on about the presence of Thomas Barrow not only at their wedding but in their bedchamber of all places. How the archbishop insisted that a local official from Downton be present at the wedding to witness the legitimacy of the union and that Thomas Barrow, keen to gossip, was only to happy to volunteer his time. 

“What, pray tell Mrs. Carson, amuses you so?” he asks seriously, his hands clenching tightly. "As if a woman of your character needs his testimony as to the validity of our marital union? And to ask if me if I have questions? Does he not think that I know well enough how to make love to my wife? That is all I have dreamed of for the past twenty years."

Suddenly it feels as if the air has been sucked from the room; Charles’s outburst has shocked them both. To speak of intimate things so plainly in the open has stunned her and the room falls silent.

She makes to say something, anything to break this tension, to break this delicious tension, to put herself back on familiar ground but before she can utter a single syllable, he is across the room, and she is caught up in his arms. And for the first time this day, for the first time since becoming man and wife he is kissing her properly, thoroughly, and though she has always been a steady presence in sea of unsteadiness, the sand is shifting beneath her feet and Elsie Carson is out of her depth. She is a woman of tender feeling and Charles is needy and giving all at once and she is sinking fast, pulled under by a confluence of emotion. 

 

Together again  
The gray skies are gone  
Your back in my arms  
Now where you belong

 

He is an educated man, a man of words and ideas, and the type of man who prides himself on the facility with which he expresses himself. Yet as he is now, exposed both in body and spirit, the scars of a struggle between two loves finally reconciled laid bare before the woman he loves, the woman he has loved, he struggles to name this feeling that has overtaken him. 

He settles on joy. But even that seems feeble when the linen gown falls away to reveal his bride's silken skin, warm and supple under his fingertips. He has never seen such beauty in his life and she blushes prettily when he tells her so. He's touched that this confident woman has suddenly gone shy; that she frets over things like wrinkles and scars; that she worries he will be disappointed that she isn't as young as she once was and that her body isn't as is taught and pert as it was when he first loved her. 

His lips follow the lines of her body, trace the peaks and valleys that make her a woman, and he is drunk on the heady intoxicating knowledge that she is his, his to worship and adore, to make happy, to become one with in every sense, with every sense he possesses. 

To him, she is beautiful. 

 

Here, in the quietness of their rooms, he makes promises, seals each one with a kiss. Promises to honor her, to cherish her, to love her to the end of his days, and promises to never leave her. It is this last promise that gives her pause. She knows that he doesn't mean it the way that the words strike her, but in the instance her tender heart is pricked, for she knows that they haven't as many days together as they have had, as many days as they could have had. But his lips on her neck, the feel of him strong and virile against her, inside her, drives the sadness into but a fleeting thought and she is caught up once again in rapturous delight. 

He is beautiful to her, even more so now than when he was a young man, for his features have softened into an honorable nobility and the scars that he carries etched onto both his heart and his soul mean that he's lived life, but then so has she; she's thankful that they've lived most of their lives together and will live the remainder of it as closely as two people can. While choices for him are usually fraught with careful contemplation, for her, choosing him has always been simple. She loves him. Simply and truly. 

Her fingers thread through his silver locks and then down his cheek. He turns and kisses the inside of her palm and she sighs. Before she realizes it, a tear slips down her cheek and her husband's brow furrows. Only a tear of joy, she assures him. 

Joy. 

 

The love that we knew  
Is living again  
And nothing else matters  
'Cause we're together again

 

It is their last day in residence at the Bishop's House in Downton. When they married ten years earlier, she'd have never expected Charles to retire, to give up his first love when he had fought so hard to keep it, but surprised she was one August day when she found him signing his name to the letter that would take them into this new phase of their lives. But the palsy in his hands is getting worse, considerably worse than it was a year ago, even six months ago, and the time has come to relinquish his responsibilities. The time has come to rest, to hand the hard work over to someone younger. 

Elsie is tasked with checking the rooms one last time, making certain that every item has been packed away for their move just down the way to a nice cottage that Lord Grantham suggested for them. Making her rounds, Elsie pauses in each room, taking a moment to reflect on their life together, memories made as husband and wife in this grand house. Every room holds a flicker of remembrance. 

"It'll be a different life." She feels the words as much as hears them as her husband wraps his arms around her from behind. She feels the softness of his cheek against hers as she leans back against him. 

"Aye," she sighs. Feeling the flutter of her husband's palsied hands she covers them with her own and squeezes. "But we will be all right Charlie. We have each other. What more can we ask for?"


End file.
